Page 46 of Borrowed Pain
"I want to find Patricia Hendricks before they disappear her the way they disappeared Rook. And I want to make sure that eight-year-old boy gets justice for what they did to him."
Miles pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "My brother Michael has federal connections. If they are holding Hendricks for questioning, there might be official channels—"
"No." I turned away from the wall. "The moment federal agents start asking questions about Hendricks's whereabouts, everyone involved will know she was working with outside sources. If they're only suspicious now, official inquiry would confirm their worst fears."
"Then what do you suggest? Wait and hope she surfaces on her own?"
I paced toward the window. "We've been thinking about this wrong," I said. "Treating it like an investigation when it's actually a rescue operation."
"What's the difference?"
"Investigation focuses on gathering evidence to build a case. Rescue focuses on extracting people before they're eliminated." My mind shifted into operational mode. "Hendricks isn't a source anymore—she's a target. Rook isn't a witness—he's a liability they need to eliminate."
"Then we follow Rook," Miles said. "He knows where she is, or at least how to contact her. That's why he bolted from the diner—not because he was discovered, but because she was in immediate danger."
I left the window and moved toward the kitchen area. Miles was already there, pouring two fresh cups of coffee. "What about the evidence we already have?" he asked. "Rook's notebook contains enough financial documentation to trigger federal investigations."
"It's not enough." I thought about the eight-year-old boy who'd trusted adults to help him heal from whatever traumahad brought him to Meridian's attention. "They didn't just steal money, Miles. They stole childhoods, memories, and the ability to trust therapeutic relationships."
Miles sipped and studied my evidence wall. "So we need both. We need Rook's financial documentation and Hendricks's medical evidence."
"We need them alive long enough to testify." I faced him directly. "This isn't about building an investigative case anymore. It's about preventing two more murders."
"Alleged murders," Miles said automatically, then caught himself. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. But Rowan, if we're shifting from investigation to rescue operation, we need to understand what we're planning."
"Which is?"
"Breaking federal laws. Obstruction of justice if legitimate agents are questioning her. Potentially accessory charges if we help federal fugitives evade custody." Miles lowered his voice. "My license, your podcast, our families' safety—all of it becomes collateral damage."
His comments clarified something I'd been avoiding since Lucia's death. Some fights were worth the risk of losing everything.
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" I asked.
"I'm trying to make sure we both understand the stakes before we cross more lines we can't uncross." Miles reached for my hand, fingers warm from holding his cup. "Once we shift from amateur investigators to active resistance, there's no returning to normal lives. I learned that from my brothers."
I looked down at our joined hands—his pale fingers interlaced with mine. "I haven't had a normal life since I left the Bureau. Maybe it's time to stop pretending I wanted one."
Miles squeezed my hand. "What about me? What happens to the mild-mannered therapist who accidentally got recruited into a federal conspiracy?"
"He gets to choose whether justice for his clients is worth risking his comfortable life."
"Already made that choice. It happened when I decided to meet you instead of filing a routine complaint and forgetting about Iris." Miles offered a crooked smile. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed trying to save people who might already be dead."
I didn't design the kitchen area of my loft with two people in mind. Miles moved around me, opening cabinets I'd forgotten contained actual food, assembling something that resembled dinner from the chaos of my stress-baking supplies.
"When did you last eat something that wasn't flour and sugar?" he asked, cracking eggs into a bowl.
"I order in."
Miles opened my refrigerator to grab the butter and then paused. "Fuck. Your fridge looks like a science experiment."
I glanced over his shoulder at the collection of takeout containers in various states of decay and condiment bottles with expiration dates from previous years.
"I do eat," I said defensively.
"You survive. There's a difference." Miles located a pan and set it on my ancient stovetop. "Scrambled eggs with whatever herbs still smell like something."
I found his domestic efficiency hypnotic. It was almost like he belonged in my kitchen, finding what he needed despite my organizational chaos. The scent of butter heating in the pan mixed with the warehouse's usual electronics-and-brick aroma, creating something unexpectedly comfortable.
